


Catharsis

by Blink_Blue



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, But I will go down with this ship, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, no one is healthy here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-06-21 12:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blink_Blue/pseuds/Blink_Blue
Summary: Pain and pleasure are muddled in the bright blaze of vengeance. In the end, Billy finally gets someone who wants him. And isn’t that what he wanted all along?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written fic in far too long. I'm a bit rusty. But Frank/Billy just got me good.

At some point Curtis looks up from Frank meticulously tying up his unconscious ex-war buddie’s wrists and ankles to see the man’s face, cold and hard. Emotionless. Far too close to the look he had while killing faceless soldiers in the name of duty. Or the gangs of New York’s worst crime syndicates. The nobodies. The ones who don’t even make The Punisher flinch when he pulls the trigger. But Curtis knows this is different. 

His frown deepens, and surely Frank can hear his sharp intake of breath. “What are you gonna do with him?”

Frank pulls tight the last knot around Billy’s wrists and hoists his body over his shoulder like the dead weight of a sack of potatoes. Billy was always long and slender, all graceful limbs that moved with an elegance that no one else could quite mimic. Now his bound arms smack Frank in the back of the legs as the movement jostles his heavy limbs.

“I’m gonna make him suffer,” he says, simple as that.

“The same way Rawlins made you suffer?” Curtis shakes his head. “Frank—”

“You know what he did,” Frank growls, disgust and fury in the glare that he sends his friend. “You know he’s not getting out of this one.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Curtis agrees. That doesn’t mean he has to like it. “But you asked for a mercy kill and he was gonna give it to you. So let me ask you again, what are you gonna do with him?”

Frank pauses, halfway to the door. Seconds pass without a word. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Your soul’s on the line here, Frank,” Curtis says slowly. He knows he can’t stop him, because nothing stops Frank Castle. But he’s gotta try. “You know you two are almost exactly alike. Almost. Far more than you know. Or maybe just more than you’d like to admit.” 

Frank stills. Not too long ago, those words would have been taken as a compliment. But not anymore. 

_You’re just one bad day away from becoming me._

Curtis is wrong. Frank could never be like Billy. Could never do what the man did. Could never betray someone he loves. Could never _hurt_ someone he loves—could never hurt them like Billy hurt him.  

His soul feels intact as he carries Billy’s unconscious body out of Curtis’ apartment with all the conviction of a soldier at war. It feels like a victory and he can practically smell sweet justice in the air. He thinks he should feel more relieved though. 

The end is near, and Frank can’t quite figure out if he’s welcoming or dreading it. 

*

Billy wakes up with his head pounding and his limbs tied uncomfortably to a chair. He tugs with his wrists, held firmly behind his back, but there’s no give. Not that he expected any. His ankles don’t fare any better. 

He’s also naked as the day he was born. 

Billy hisses through his teeth. At least he had the decency of keeping Frank clothed when he zip-tied him to a chair. 

He winces as a stab of pain signifying circulation being cut off pierces him at the ends of his fingertips. Peeking up from beneath the dark hair that’s fallen into his face, he sees Frank staring at him silently from a chair in the corner of the dim room. Setting light from dusk just barely seeps through the curtains over the windows. The room is almost bare. He blinks slowly. A ratty, old mattress lies on the floor with a duffle bag next to it, the only other things in the room beside two men who sit in chairs staring daggers at each other. 

Billy swallows, reminded of a time in the past, from his shitty, pathetic excuse of a childhood. Foster homes with empty bedrooms and bare, beige dirty walls. Lifeless. 

No one but an orphan could understand how much he hates rooms like this. Alone and helpless, with all his materialistic items in the world fit into a bag at his feet. 

And this time, it’s not even his bag. 

Billy glowers at the pistol that sits heavy in Frank’s lap and curses himself silently for getting caught. For finding himself so weak. He tugs again uselessly at his bindings. 

“What are you gonna do to me?” His voice is raspy and dry. He blinks away the remnants of grogginess in his head, feeling the dull, pounding pain of a mild concussion. “You gonna kill me, Frank?” Billy tilts his head to the side. “Gonna make good on your word?”

“I’m gonna make you suffer, Bill,” Frank says without a flinch. “I’m gonna make you hurt for what you did. Until you regret it, all of it. ‘Til you regret the day you ever met me.” His fingers twitch but make no movement towards the gun in his lap. “I’m gonna make you wish you were never born.”

Billy smiles, unpleasantly. His throat tightens but he swallows it down. “So you’re gonna break me?” He chuckles, his eyes full of steel as he watches the other man musingly. “You think you can?”

Frank sniffs and shrugs his heavy shoulders. “Like you said, Bill. Every man breaks.”

Billy’s grin spreads wide, showing all his pearly white teeth. “Yeah,” he agrees. He knows how to play this game. “Every man breaks.” 

*

Frank decides to go slow with his methods of torture. With Billy as the last man breathing who played a role in the murder of his family, and Madani’s word that she’d leave him be so long as he kept his face hidden in the shadows, him and Billy… in the quiet and seclusion of this safe house… they have all the time in the world. 

So Frank is going to drag this out, savor it nice and slow, and Billy will know pain, until he’s begging for death before Frank finally ends it. 

“I want to know why,” Frank says, his voice low, as he slides another needle deep beneath the middle fingernail of Billy’s trembling right hand. “Why’d you do it, huh? Were we not good enough to you?” 

A hiss of pain is stifled deep in Billy’s throat, the clench of it makes a surge of adrenaline coarse through Frank’s veins. Billy’s eyes, dark and glittering, stare straight ahead, refusing to give the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“Did it mean anything to you?” Frank growls behind him. He thinks of the times they spent, life or death, having each other’s backs, laying down their lives for country and duty. And for each other. He thinks of the visits. Of home. The invitation extended every time they were on leave. He remembers Maria and Billy laughing in the kitchen while Frank tried to wrangle the kids. Little Frank Jr. and the way he looked at Billy with admiration in his young eyes. His baby girl, so brilliant and adoring, unfazed by Billy’s charm in a way few women ever were. 

_Uncle Billy._

Frank wants to scream. He wants to punch and stab and break and demand to know why Billy threw away everything that Frank loved. And was it all worth it?

“Was _any_ of it real?!”

Billy squints his eyes. A breathy chuckle falls passed his lips, and he makes a face like he can’t decide if Frank is being serious or not. It’s rage-inducing and Frank growls through gritted teeth. He won’t be mocked, not by Billy. Not now. Not when he’s so close to putting everyone who had hurt his family into the ground. 

He throws a hard punch and Billy’s head snaps to the side with a gasp. Blood gushes freely from his nose, dribbling down his lips, over his chin, and onto his bare chest. 

“You were my brother,” Frank hisses. “I would have died for you.” He licks his lips. “Almost did a few times.”

Billy’s eyes blink, slow and heavy. He looks blank for a moment, confused almost _,_ and he looks at him like he’s not really seeing Frank at all. “I never… I never had anybody,” he says softly.

Frank makes an impatient noise. “You had me, Bill. You had _us._ ”

Billy throws his head back and _laughs_ , but it’s mirthless, his perfect white teeth a sharp contrast to the red that paints them.

Frank hits him again to make him stop. 

“My wife loved you,” he spits. His beautiful Maria, who raised his children alone for too many years while he’d been gone. And his beautiful children. “My _kids_ loved you.”

Billy stares at him, a little too blank, and a little too empty. “What a crock of shit,” he whispers.

The next hit is hard enough that Billy sees lights behind his eyes. 

“The things you took from me,” Frank grabs the other man by the throat. _Shakes him_ hard to make him see his pain. “I’m gonna do the same to you,” he promises. “I’m gonna make you hurt.”

Billy has the audacity to smile. Despite the air being cut off to his burning lungs, his lips still pull into a grin. It’s a terribly familiar smile. It reminds Frank of all the times Billy made him laugh, cracking dumbass jokes, and usually risking a hard reaming out from their commanding officer. But Billy always grinned at him, like it was all worth it. Every, single time.

Now that smile looks so wrong on his face. Because Frank’s lost everything. Because he was betrayed by the last person he ever thought would desert him. 

It’s still a beautiful smile. The smile of a confident man. A womanizer. Billy ‘The Beaut’ Russo.

_It was always clothes, cars, and women with you._

He can’t see how he could have missed it. Was Billy that good of a liar or was Frank just a blind idiot for falling for it? Maybe Billy never cared at all, and it was all just lies. 

“Did I hurt you?” Billy croons softly. He licks his dry, cracked lips. His dark eyes are almost predatory, a stark contradiction to his current bound, helpless state. He mocks him with the gentleness of his voice. “Did I?”

The smell of cooper saturates the air between them. 

Frank wants to pound his face into the ground. Crush it between his palms, smash it beneath his fists, press his thumbs into his eyes like he did to Rawlins, and break that pretty face just to stop it from looking so innocently back at him with wide, glittering eyes and a soft mouth. 

“Are you gonna kill me, Frank?” Billy asks quietly. 

Frank’s lips twist into something ugly. “No,” he bites. “I’m not gonna kill you. Not yet. Dying’s too easy for you.” Billy _pouts_ and Frank’s fingers tighten harder around his throat, tighten until they’re straggling him. “You’re gonna learn about pain.” The other man shudders in his grip, head woozy from the lack of blood circulating to his brain. “You’re gonna learn about loss.” Billy twitches as a cross between a whimper and a groan is forced from his lips. “Every morning, I look for ‘em.” Frank forces his eyes shut. Tries to push out the images of his smiling wife and children, but he can’t. He sees their bodies, lying bloody and still. And he knows he _has_ to do this. 

“I look for ‘em,” Frank whispers, opening his eyes to rid the images that are too real in his mind. “But then I remember.”

_They’re gone._

That ache, that piercing emptiness in his chest feels worse than any bullet that had ever pierced his flesh. And Billy’s betrayal had _everything_ to do with it.  

“It’s gonna be the same for you,” Frank spits at him, leaning closer as he watches him. “I want it to haunt you. I want it to haunt you like it haunts me. You’re gonna remember what you did.”

Frank finally releases his grip. Billy pulls away with a gasping breath as he trembles and shakes. His eyes roll around unfocused, looking at anything but Frank, who stares inches from his face. 

And finally, Frank sees it. Just a quick flash, but it’s still there all the same. 

The first hint of fear on Billy Russo’s handsome face. 

*

Time passes slow as molasses. Five days later, and Billy can’t help but groan at the soreness in his limbs. Frank had finally let him out of the chair, only to keep him chained on the ground like a dog, still naked, with his hands painfully tied behind his back. And the small mercy was only because it was more convenient for Frank to keep him from shitting himself where he sat in the chair. 

He mutters under his breath, clenches his jaw, and then screams through gritted teeth, his aching arms begging for freedom. 

“You gonna keep me locked up here forever?” 

He laughs, a bit choked, and a little hysterical. 

Billy sits with his legs pulled close against his body, a reflexive stance. But Frank doesn’t spare him a glance. He takes a healthy bite from a sandwich with enough vigor that has Billy’s stomach growling loud with hunger. 

Starvation. Frank’s latest in a list of brilliant tortures. He feeds him enough MREs to keep him alive. Just barely. The smell of fresh deli meat and mustard wafts to Billy’s nose. His mouth waters as he watches the way Frank’s jaw flexes as he chews. He hasn’t felt his ribs so clearly since he was an adolescent, either starved by foster parents, or fighting for his fair share just so he wouldn’t go hungry at night. His limbs twitch with involuntary tremors. Oh, how he’d loved to kick the shit out of Frank if only he’d get close enough. 

“You’re pathetic,” Billy growls, his voice vicious with hate. Frank raises an eyebrow and Billy snarls in response. “This is what you do? This is your vengeance? This is your _justice?_ Keeping me here, tied up, beaten and starving like a fucking _dog?!”_

Frank sets down his sandwich. He grabs the napkin on his lap and carefully wipes his lips as he chews. It’s a mockery. A basic decency Billy isn’t given. Just one other thing Frank has taken away from him. 

Billy blinks and reconsiders.

“I get it,” Billy says carefully. “I get why you’re doing this. You know we’re not so different, you and me.”

Frank freezes still. His shoulders tense, looking hard and muscled. Threatening. “How’s that?” He asks, a dangerous edge to his cold eyes.

“People like us… we don’t get lives outside of this. We don’t _get_ to move on.” Billy’s voice is a little thick. But he catches the flash of uncertainty that flickers over Frank’s face before he can mask it. 

So Billy continues. “You’re _still_ there,” he chuckles. “Even after all this time, you’re still there. And I get it, Frankie. I get it better than anyone.” That’s the cold, hard truth that Frank refuses to face. It was always one of his shortcomings. “We _need_ this, you and me. It’s all we’re good for. Just a couple of assholes who thought we could have the good things in life.” A wry strangled, dry laugh pulls itself out of his throat. “But we are not good people. We never were. Me and you, Frankie… we’re the same.”

“You’re wrong,” Frank says, his voice tight, hands fisted by his sides. And that tells Billy all he needs to know.

“Then why don’t you finish it?” Billy demands, eyes flashing wildly. “Kill me?! I know why. Because you don’t want to! You don’t want to end this because you can’t let go. Even now, after everything… still the same old Frankie.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Frank roars. “We are not the same!” He’s jumped to his feet, sandwich and napkin scatters forgotten to the dirty floor. His whole body shakes as he whips his head side to side. “I never did what you did! Not for all the money in the world! I never betrayed my friend! I still have my honor! And where I come from, that means something.” His breath shudders, limbs twitching in anger as he waves a harsh finger at the man on the ground. “You? You’re _nothing_ , Billy. Nothing at all.”

Billy leans forward and drops his voice to a low whisper. “Honor?” He says the word like it leaves a dirty taste in his mouth and huffs out a small breath. “I’ll make you lose that too.”

Now it’s Frank’s turn to laugh. He gives a half-roll of his eyes, head shaking in mock exasperation. “Yeah, Bill? And how are you gonna do that?”

Billy purses his lips together and lifts his chin, looking bitterly amused. “I will happily hurt everyone you ever gave a shit about.”

Frank snorts. “Look around you,” he says, raising his arms as he casts his gaze around the empty room. “Look at yourself, Bill. You’re not exactly in the position to make threats right now.”

Billy’s eyes flash darkly as the blow to his pride hits him hard in the chest. Him and Frank are nearly evenly matched in most regards… skill, talent, experience… What he lacks in pure, brute force, he makes up for in raging, dangerous ambition. 

He can be every bit as stubborn as Frank, that’s for sure. 

“What the hell are you smiling at?”

Billy’s lips part as he looks up at the man towering over him. He blinks his eyes slow. “You cared about me, didn’t you?”

Frank almost slips back into Afghanistan at those words. “That was a long time ago, Bill.”

Billy bows his head. He settles back against the wall behind him, no longer in the mood to talk. It’s impossible to get comfortable with his hands tied behind his back, or to forget how vulnerable he is, naked, bruised, and bloody, every bit of him at Frank’s mercy. 

The other man watches him with familiar eyes and Billy remembers. He remembers those eyes, he remembers Iraq, Afghanistan, and he remembers seeing Frank in the chair, beaten near death by Rawlins while Billy stood by and watched.  

He knows Frank better than anyone in the world. Better than his own wife ever knew him, he’s sure of it. 

The question that hangs between them is, who’s going to break first. 


	2. Chapter 2

Frank gets a sick satisfaction out of breaking the former marine. Though he’d never admit out loud that it’s slightly dampened by two less than desirable emotions: guilt that he wishes wouldn’t rear its ugly head because Billy deserves every second of this pain, and pride at how well Billy holds up under torture.  

There’s a sharpness to his eyes that Frank expected, but wished he didn’t see, after almost two weeks of torture and near starvation. Still, it’s harder than Frank thought it would be to see his old friend like this.

A hiss passes Billy’s lips as he gingerly brings the small plastic cup of water to his mouth with his tied wrists. The right one was painfully snapped by Frank’s hands when Billy (stupidly) tried to fight as the other man re-tied his bindings. 

Days later, the wrist is still bruised purple and black. Frank wonders how it’ll heal without being properly set. He tells himself he shouldn’t care so much. 

Billy hasn’t tried to fight him since.

Now Frank mostly finds him staring vacantly at the wall. Bouts of intense sulking is what he’s treated to. No one goes back and forth between intense moods quicker than Billy. Hours will pass, sometimes days of stony, unyielding silence. Then like a switch, he’s back to explosive outbursts with his sharp tongue, so irritating and hurtful that Frank is forced to respond with physical violence more often than not. 

“I’m _bored,_ Frank. Surely you must be too,” Billy drawls. He bangs his head lightly against the wall behind him. “Though I guess you never had much going on between your ears to begin with.”

Frank shrugs, letting the familiar insult wash over him. It’s almost _too_ familiar, in a way that’s uncomfortable if Frank thinks about it too much. Instead, a casual smirk lifts up one corner of his lips as he nurses a bottle of cheap whiskey. He allows himself to relax as he watches the other man silently. If he tries real hard, he can almost imagine he’s just having a drink with Micro in their old hideout. Casual. Definitely not torturing the man who he used to call his best friend. Until Billy’s betrayal tore every last shred of humanity he thought he still had in him. 

Frank can see the way Russo is itching for some good old conversation. Billy never did well with isolation. That’s one of the few differences between them. Whereas Frank could be kept company by his own thoughts for days on end without blinking an eye, Billy has a mind that needs constant stimulation. He gets bored too easily and too quickly. 

He goes a little mad. 

Frank’s seen it before. Just a hint of it, really. His sharp tongue had cut into men with lesser spine than himself. And now Frank’s left wondering what the inner demons _really_ look like when they finally come out. 

So he’ll leave him alone for hours. The longest was just a pinch over a day and a half. Billy always looks a little too wild when he returns. His dirty hair mussed, his eyes a little too wide. Desperate for attention, like an affection-starved stray. 

Frank watches him silently. He almost wants to return the barb with one of his own, maybe say something about him not looking so pretty right now… pale, sickly, and unwashed. But he takes another drink instead and keeps his mouth shut.

Billy’s eyes narrow to slits as he glares from beneath a curtain of dark hair. 

“You always did drink like a sailor,” he growls. “You could at least share,” he mutters after a moment.

Frank considers it. The other man hasn’t had a proper meal in two weeks. He looks little more than skin and bones, the carefully toned muscle slowly worn away by starvation and immobility. It’s probably not a good idea. But it poses little danger.  

Frank raises an eyebrow before stepping closer. He holds out the half full bottle and surprise graces Billy’s face that he’s being indulged, followed by a look of distrust and suspicion. He gets over it quickly and takes the bottle, swallowing down a generous swig of the amber liquid. 

He winces at the burn. “You have awful taste,” Billy mutters under his breath. 

Frank stares at him, unblinking. He doesn’t say a word, just watches silently as Billy proceeds to get _plastered._ Maybe he’s trying to dull the pain of his injuries. Or maybe he think this might be his last chance to get drunk. 

“You were always good to me, Frankie,” Billy says suddenly, his voice hoarse, weird, and almost animal-like. “Don’t think I wasn’t grateful for that.”

“You got a funny way of showing it.”

Billy gets loose when he’s drunk. His limbs relax, as much as they can with his arms and legs bound tight in front of him. An old memory floods Frank’s mind, one of his best nights with Billy—one of the best nights of his life, if he’s honest. Making it out of Basra in one piece was a mercy neither of them had expected. But they did it, together. And they celebrated with drink and laughter and war stories before carrying each other back to their quarters, safe and sound. 

Frank never thought—he never _imagined—_ what would come next.

“Maybe I never knew you at all,” he says carefully. The honesty surprises them both.

Billy looks up with dark eyes. “Maybe you didn’t,” he agrees.

“I gotta give you props, Bill. You really are _that_ good of a liar.” He chuckles dryly. “You sure fooled me, man.” 

Billy’s eyes shift. For the briefest moment, he looks uncomfortable before the mask slips back into place. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says lowly. 

“Like what?”

And just like that, the mood shifts violently. “What the hell are you doing?” Billy demands. “What is this?” He slams the bottle hard on the ground and Frank suddenly considers that despite Billy’s weak condition, giving the man a glass bottle could be a bad idea. 

“What are we doing here?” Billy asks, his eyes wide and glittering. “How long are you going to keep me like this? How—long—Frank?! Why don’t you just kill me already?” 

“As long as I say, Bill. Until I’m satisfied.” 

The look on Billy’s face borders on tragic. He bows his head and curls into himself. Frank thinks he’s never seen the other man look so goddamn pathetic. 

An awful sound mewls from Billy’s throat. “Fuck you,” he spits. “You think this is gonna break me?” His voice is rough, desperate and just a little bit crazed.

Frank chuckles, and shakes his head. “You tell me.”

“You’re wrong,” Billy says, without looking up. “You won’t break me. You wouldn’t know how.” He slowly lifts the bottle to his lips and Frank stares at the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

Frank raises his chin as he blinks. There’s no urgency on Billy’s face, still handsome despite the gauntness of his cheeks and the hollowness of his eyes. There’s no hunger on his lips, just… casual acceptance. 

“I’m gonna take away everything from you, Bill,” Frank says softly. “Until you’ve got nothing. Just like you did to me.”

Billy slowly lifts his gaze to meet Frank’s eyes. “You’re forgetting that I already know what it’s like to have nothing. I _came_ from nothing. And no matter how much you take away from me…  it’s nothing I don’t already know.”

“There’s always more for a man to lose,” Frank says. The money’s gone, the company, even Billy’s good name is tainted and dirty, dragged through the mud. No more cars, fancy clothes, and tailored suits. It’s all gone now. 

If there were a single person he thought Billy gave a damn about in the world, he’d take them away too. But Frank doubts that exists. 

“Was your life all that terrible?” Frank scoffs as Billy looks up at him murderously. “What fucked you up enough that you did this, huh?”

“Is this the part where I tell you my tragic story?” Billy says softly. He glares at him and practically _sways._ “So you’ll feel sorry for me?”

“I doubt it,” Frank growls. His fingers itch to take the bottle away. 

Billy stares at him, stony and silent, for so long that Frank starts to wonder what’s going on in that head of his. Until he finally speaks, his voice low and toneless. “I never had anybody,” Billy says. “I never had anything. I just… I just wanted… _something.”_ His voice trails off. He shakes his head. “I wanted everything.”

“You keep saying you had nobody, but all I hear is bullshit! You had _me!”_

Frank storms over, pissed off and going off. He yanks the bottle out of Billy’s hands. The only response is a barely audible hiss of pain as the man’s wrists are knocked by the movement. “I thought of you as family, you piece of shit… Why did you do it?” Frank asks, breathing heavily. His hands tremble by his sides. The anger knocks him like a rampage. “Tell me why, or I swear to god, I will put a bullet in you right now—”

“I had no family.”

“You had _us!”_

“You say that like it means something to me!” Billy screams loud enough that Frank physically flinches. His eyes are wide with unbridled rage. “When have I ever had a family? When has anyone ever wanted me?”

Frank back-peddles from the shear pain in Billy’s voice. He always treated Billy like family. His _family_ treated Billy like family. They were friends from the moment they met. Became more than that when they fought together, had each other’s backs and Frank trusted him like he never trusted anybody else in his life. He always thought he meant the same thing to Billy. 

_I wanted you,_ Frank wants to say, but he bites his tongue instead.

“I never had a home,” Billy says, his voice so low and so _sad_ that it makes Frank’s heart stutter in his chest. “I never had anybody who cared about me.”

Something in the softness of his voice pulls the pieces together for Frank. “The-the foster families…” Frank shakes his head. “And the group homes…” He knew it was bad. Bits and pieces that Billy shared when they were drunk and the closest thing to vulnerable around each other. He knew Billy was never treated right. He remembers Billy telling him about the beatings, and how he never had a place where he belonged until the marines. Frank may have had living, loving parents, but the last part he gets. 

Billy’s body visibly tenses. “There were people who promised me things, said they would keep me, said they would _love_ me. Empty promises just to get their three hundred dollar checks every month,” he smiles bitterly. “No one ever cared.”

Frank drags a hand over his face just so he has the excuse to look away. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says honestly. A lot of it makes sense now. The money, the cars, the clothes… Billy was always arrogant that he would go so far. 

But the way he remembers Billy talking about it—the other man’s bright smile and easy-going personality flashes into his mind—he was as casual as if he were talking about the weather. 

It’s slowly dawning on him just how good Billy’s mask was. 

Frank carefully kneels down in front of the other man. Billy’s eyes are wide and unseeing, staring at a spot of nothing on the ground. The pain and the fury radiate off him like the heat of a thousand suns. “Bill… you and me… that was real, alright?” Frank whispers. “You were the closest thing to a brother I _ever_ had.”

Billy finally looks up, his lips slightly parted, and tears pooling in his bright eyes. 

Frank’s prior fury, rolling in his chest like waves of lava have dissipated into smoldering embers. The fire’s gone out, and he’s left tired and weary. He takes a second before he continues. “The way my family felt about you…” he swallows the lump in his throat. “That was real.”

Billy tragically stares at Frank’s face, awe shudders his features as if he’s looking at a treasured piece of artwork at an exhibit. Like he’s something special, something to be remembered, or cherished. Frank shifts under the gaze, uncomfortable. 

Billy looks pained when he finally whispers, “you’re never gonna be able to let this go, will you?”

“I…” Something swells up in Frank’s throat and the words get lost somewhere in between. They have a history. They could have had a future, but Billy ruined that. “My kids…” His voice cracks and he shakes his head. “Maria…” His voice hardens at the thought of her. “It doesn’t even matter that you’re not the one who pulled the trigger. It doesn’t matter, Bill,” Frank says sadly. “You chose them. We… we weren’t enough for you. _I_ wasn’t enough for you.” 

For a single, ridiculous second, Frank thinks that Billy might break down in front of him. That he might beg him for forgiveness, or for some sort of understanding. That he would cry and plead and want for the way things were.  

But instead, Frank watches as acceptance slowly settles onto Billy’s face, like he’s reconciled himself to his fate. “It’s okay,” Billy says softly. His eyes fall to his bound wrists, examining the broken bone and the ugly, dark bruises around it. “I get it, Frank.”

“I wish things were different,” Frank admits. And in his heart, he knows Billy does too.

Billy shakes his head. “No, I get it,” he says, his voice hardens as he continues staring pensively at his wrists. “I really do. Hell, I’d do the same damn thing. I don’t blame you at all.”

Frank’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Like I said, Frankie… we’re the same, you and me.” Billy slowly uncurls himself, raising his chin as he looks at Frank with defiance in his eyes. And there’s that wry smile again. “I hurt anybody who hurts me. There’s no mercy, no exceptions, just… vengeance. That what it’s about, right?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, his voice raw. “That’s right.”

Billy looks away again. He seems to fade out, gets lost in his own thoughts. “There was this uh… good samaritan, who used to volunteer at one of the group homes I was at. And he…” Billy is nearly whispering. His voice trails off and he bites his bottom lip between his teeth. “Well, let’s just say… he had a thing for… pretty little boys.”

The words wash over Frank like a bucket of ice water that seeps into his veins. The bottom falls out of his stomach with a dizzying flop. He stares at him, stone-faced to keep the shock from showing. 

“Fucking pedophile,” Billy growls, lost somewhere in his memories. “I’d had enough of… I’d had enough,” he finally says. “So the next time this guy tries something, I was ready. Tried to knock his ass out with a stickball bat. Got him good a few times.” His voice breaks off with a dry laugh. “And then he put in the hospital for a week.” 

After a moment, Billy’s eyes slowly trail over to his bare shoulder, where the surgical scars stand out like cruel, ugly streaks on otherwise unblemished skin. The scars that Frank had always known about, but could never have guessed they were from an incident so traumatic. 

“I was ten years old.”

Frank flinches violently. “Jesus, Billy.”

Billy turns his head just in time to catch the pained look on Frank’s face. “Don’t you fucking do that,” he whispers, vehemently. “Don’t you fucking pity me.”

Frank can’t help it, and he knows better than anyone that bad things happen. Wars and earthquakes and starving babies… red painted bloody all over his loved ones. So this really shouldn’t be so hard for him to swallow. 

But still, his heart twists violently in his chest. 

Billy was barely older than his son.

If anyone had tried that on his kids… Frank suddenly finds it hard to breathe. He’d kill them all. 

Billy’s lips curl and twist as he sneers at him. “He wasn’t the last. And the bastard got what was comin’ to him.” His voice is eerily calm, which is wrong on so many levels because Frank is still fighting the urge to puke.

Maybe it’s the ice in his eyes, glinting like diamonds on his perfectly sculpted face, aristocratic and beautiful, teetering on the edge of crazed, that makes Frank curious. 

“What did you do to him?”

Billy laughs, and it’s not the laugh that Frank remembers, mischievous and full of life. This laugh is dark and lifeless, full of contempt for the world and everything in it. 

“I found him, years later.” Billy’s voice drips with hate. “He was still a piece of shit, probably still perving on kids.” The look of disgust in his eyes is the coldest look Frank’s ever seen on Billy’s face. “Well, I wasn’t a small, weak child anymore. I found him, _caught_ him… and I tortured him. Cut his fucking hands off,” Billy says lightly. “Used a hacksaw… made it hurt. His dick too, ‘cause… you know, _pervert.”_

_Good,_ Frank thinks. 

“Every part of him that touched me,” Billy says icily. “I watched him bleed. I watched him scream. I watched him shit his fucking pants, and it felt so good.”

Frank shivers. Blood pounds in his ears and his throat suddenly feels horribly dry. He almost wants to beg Billy to stop sharing. He’s angry, he’s so _fucking_ angry. 

“You’re shaking,” Billy says.

Frank shuts his eyes because he can’t look at Billy right now.

Billy reaches out with his bound wrists, his long fingers extended. He pauses, changes his mind, and drops them back to his lap. He gives a short, bitter laugh. “Bad things happened to me, but they made me strong. They made me who I am today.”

Billy bares his teeth, an awful, feral grin, and Frank thinks, not for the first time, that Billy has the darkest, blackest eyes of anyone he’d ever seen in his life. They’re terrifyingly beautiful. 

“Don’t you ever forget that.”

Frank won’t.

For all of Billy’s pride and bravado, it’s a defense against a world that will never be able to heal the wounds inflicted on a child so young, and—worst of all—the physical scars are nothing when compared to the haunted look in Billy’s eyes.   

Frank feels sick. 

“Do you see now?” Billy asks softly. “We’re the same, you and I…” He says softly, a small grin on lips. “Just two assholes, tryin’ to get a little bit of happiness in life.”

But Frank gets no joy out of this, he realizes with a sickening stab in his gut. He stares at the scattered bruises that mar Billy’s otherwise smooth flesh, and his heart twists violently in his chest. His hands itch for the raggedy blanket that lies on the bare mattress on the other side of the room. Or maybe the few extra changes of clothes that he’s got stored in his duffle bag. 

Anything to get Billy to cover himself up, as if the other man’s exposed vulnerability was somehow his own. 

Billy, of course, catches every ounce of hesitation shadowed on his face. “What’s the matter?” He asks softly.

Frank exhales roughly.

“Frankie?” Billy’s voice sounds more urgent this time. 

Frank tilts his head and stares at Billy’s grinning face. He doesn’t say a word. 

He’s on his feet and out the door in seconds. He puts as much space between him and Billy Russo as he can, until he’s outside, not being choked by walls and the other man’s presence. And then, he finally feels like he can breathe again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Days have passed. Too many that Billy’s lost count. He’s exhausted. On the outside, he’s aching, he’s broken, and everything _hurts._

But on the inside, he can hardly contain his glee. He’s got good ol’ Frankie wrapped around his finger, and the other man doesn’t even know it.

Frank had moved him from the floor to the mattress, exchanged the far too tight rope bindings around his wrists and ankles for handcuffs and shackles that give Billy more comfort and mobility. How extraordinarily stupid of him.

Frank’s even feeding him more. 

A few days after his harrowing confession, Frank dragged him wordlessly to the single bathroom of the safehouse. He grunted like a neanderthal and shoved a wash towel and a bar of soap into Billy’s hands before turning on his heal and slamming the door shut behind him. He had left the handcuffs on. 

Billy spent the better part of an hour under the hot spray, letting the water flow over aching joints and underused limbs. He stayed there until he heard Frank’s loud banging on the door, telling him to hurry the hell up, and he’d grinned, knowing that the other man was probably waiting anxiously on the other side of the door, gun on his hip, ready to take him back to the ratty, old mattress where one of his wrists would be shackled to the ancient radiator next to the poor excuse of a sleeping surface.

Frank doesn’t want him running away.

But he’s not doing much else besides treat him with kiddie gloves after what Billy told him. Well, kiddie gloves by Frank Castle standards. The other man is visibly uncomfortable, affected. He’s too quiet, and he never spoke much to begin with. 

So Billy bides his time. Plans carefully his every move. He can’t make any mistakes, they were what got him caught in the first place. And it wasn’t that he underestimated Frank. He was… distracted. Their past lurks behind him, it’s in front of him, all-consuming, all at once. Their history—which, if Billy had his way, would stay dead and buried—Billy won’t let it get the best of him again.  

He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a constant struggle to keep his head in the game. The pain, the excitement, the rush of adrenaline that comes with _everything_ that is Frank Castle, it chokes the very air that he breathes. It’s so familiar, Billy can taste it on his tongue, like suddenly they’re twenty-five years old again and his whole body aches just being around Frank. He’d never felt more alive than when he was at war, fighting by Frank’s side, fighting for life, for brotherhood, for _everything._

He remembers those times well. He still sees them in his dreams. Frank’s bright eyes, twinkling with laughter—Billy’s heart always yearned to see him laugh.  He always tried. 

Dreams of the future seemed so simple back then. And Billy had been dreaming his whole life—to be big and strong, rich and powerful, even then it seemed so simple. 

Early in Iraq, it was all about survival, just making it from one day to the next. Later, he wanted more. A family was never in the works for him. He wasn’t cut out for it. He didn’t even know how the damn thing works. He would watch from the sidelines as Frank gushed over his pregnant wife, the first kid, and then the next. The hand-written cards and the care packages, they all left such a smile on Frank’s face. Billy would never get anything like that. And somehow that turned into him trying his damndest to recreate that same look on Frank’s face. As if it were the closest thing he’d get to it.  

And in the end, Frank really was the only real friend he ever had. But he always wanted more. What Billy couldn’t get from him… that ended up being their downfall. He bit his tongue, and he pushed it down. Stuffed it deep inside until he didn’t think about it anymore. He waited… hurt and dejected, he _coveted,_ and yearned for every opportunity. He just wanted everything that he’d ever worked for to mean something. Wanted his life to amount to something. 

That’s all it ever was. 

And when it’s all said and done, Frank is the one to take it all away from him. Everything he’d ever worked for. Life’s little ironies indeed.

Billy wishes he could hate him for it.

He’s never had trouble admitting what he wants. And he wanted Frank. God help him, he still wants the man. Like some grand joke the universe is playing on him. More than once, he wondered how he would compare to Frank’s beautiful Maria. If Frank fucked him like Billy envisions in his dreams. And what if he wasn’t good enough for the man? The sum total of his life—never being able to live up to a dead woman.  

Pathetic. 

Billy’s stomach twists into a cold, painful knot. In Afghanistan, he’d held onto Frank tight, with as much grace as he could manage. Sometimes, it left his lungs so empty he thought he might pass out. He held on so tight, he could almost believe that they could never have let it go. 

Of course, ultimately, Frank cared so much more for his wife and kids. And Billy could never care enough about Frank to turn down his childhood dreams handed to him on a silver platter. The only cost being a blind eye and a heavy heart. 

It was almost easy. 

Frank is not a conventionally beautiful man. He doesn’t have the qualities that Billy quickly learned his own looks draw of the attention of others. Frank is rugged and rough, with a strong jaw and a boxer’s nose. Others are put off by his hard appearance. They keep a safe distance, their respect almost comes naturally for the skills Frank is quick to display on the field. 

But Billy was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, from the instant he first laid eyes on him. 

Frank’s quiet demeanor is a sharp contrast to Billy’s loud-mouthed personality. Though he always knew how and when to make his opinions heard. 

Billy regrets few things in his life—things that he had control over. He’ll never forget the number of times Frank called him family. He’ll never forget Frank’s hands on him. When a bullet tore clean through his body, and Frank’s heavy hands kept the blood from spilling out, holding his life under his palms like a brand against his flesh.

He aches for what they had. And he does regret where they end up. 

Now, they’re breaking all the rules. 

“Do I still look pretty?” Billy’s voice is sweet like poisoned honey. 

“Yeah, you son of a bitch,” Frank growls. “Still pretty.”

There’s a rumble deep in Billy’s chest. He tries his best to look threatening, though he knows every bit of their current situation works against him. So he tries for seductive instead. Or maybe repulsive. That might work more in his favor. 

“You always cared so much, Frankie,” Billy murmurs, as Frank makes quick work of taking a buzzer to his messy, unkempt, overgrown beard. “You even cared about me.” 

“You’re goddamn right I did,” Frank says, without looking him in the eyes.

Billy’s eyes flash dangerously. “Why?” He asks hoarsely. 

“The fuck you mean, why?”

“No one ever cared like you did.” Acid fury burns in his mouth. “No one,” Billy mutters. 

Frank grimaces. “You were my friend, Bill,” he says through gritted teeth. 

Billy doesn’t miss the past tense. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, raising his chin. “Attachments are a weakness, don’t you know?” He sucks in a harsh breath as Frank finishes his work, carefully brushing the hairs off his face and chest with a soft hand towel. “Why haven’t you killed me already?”

The other man still refuses to meet his eyes.

It took Billy a long time to properly learn how to use his looks to his advantage. 

An innocent smile wasn’t good enough to keep the unwanted hands off of him. Shy was always too dangerous of a gamble. A sneer came across as arrogant, and they always wanted him submissive. They liked the spark of fire, but always wanted him tame as a beaten dog. They’d pay anything to get it. 

After all the time Frank had him locked up, Billy had gotten used to his ever-present nude state. For all of Frank’s apparent kindness, he’s done nothing for Billy’s modesty. Billy’s ready to turn the tables on him. 

Frank’s leaning far too close to his face, eyes carefully narrowed as he continues sweeping away short, stray hairs with the small cloth. Billy could easily headbutt him, slam his forehead into the man’s nose and hope that one shot knocks Frank out on his ass and gives him a chance of escape. He kisses him instead. A quick brush of the lips before Frank pulls away like he’d been burned. 

His lips are soft, Billy notes, and decides immediately that he wants to do it again. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Frank finally manages to say.

“What does it look like?”

“What-what the fuck—” Frank sputters. 

Billy knows by now to use his big, dark eyes. They glitter as he stares up at the other man. His lips are parted, his tongue sneaks out to glide across his bottom lip and Frank flinches when he catches the movement. Billy uses each and every one of his god given features to look the part of the lost, broken little boy that his past had tried to beat into him. His face has gotten him far in life. Only on his worst days does he hate himself for it. 

“You want it, right? You want it, Frankie?”

Frank’s face blanches. There’s no mistaking what Billy is asking of him. Frank is a man of many skills. He knows what to do in an ambush. He knows how to fend off an enemy attack in almost any situation. He knows a thousand different ways to disarm a man, and then kill him. But this… this, he doesn’t know. 

He shakes his head and Billy can see the fight in his eyes. It’s almost sad. “What the hell are you doing?” Frank asks again. 

“I remember the way you used to look at me,” Billy says smoothly. He’s not lying. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Frank hesitates. After a second, he rolls his eyes. “Fuck off,” he mutters under his breath. “I ain’t one of those girls you can charm so easily, Bill.”

Billy leans forward, his arms straining against the movement. He keeps his moves slow but concise, because Frank looks like he’s got half a mind to abandon him for another day and a half. “I remember, Frankie boy,” Billy bites his bottom lip and gives Frank that look that he knows _always_ works. “You weren’t exactly subtle, you know. All those looks? Especially in the showers.” He grins lewdly and takes in the way Frank’s fists clench dangerously by his sides. 

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Frank manages to spit. He’s taken several steps back, almost too desperate to get away from him. He shakes his head and Billy can see him frowning even with his head turned the other way. 

“Tell me I’m wrong—”

“There wasn’t much else easy on the eyes!” Frank raises his voice and his arms. “What do you want me to say?” 

Billy throws his head back and cackles, baring his neck. “Oh Frank, you always liked me more than you’d care to admit, didn’t ya?”

“Shut up,” Frank mutters again.

Billy feels something dark curl in his chest. He itches to move closer but his ankles and wrists are currently chained to the chair Frank shoved him in. The painfully brutal truth is that he’d never been anything or anyone but Frank’s. And for all the ways Frank loved his wife, this was something neither one of them could face. 

Billy remembers the looks. The way Frank’s lidded eyes always managed to find him. Billy would smirk to himself and pretend not to notice. He never minded when it was Frank. On and off the battlefield, Frank’s gaze never strayed. Until they were home. Then Frank’s eyes belonged to somebody else. 

And now again, Frank watches him still. He shifts. His cheeks redden under Billy’s stare and a shadow of a smile tugs at the corners of Billy’s lips. 

There are days when he’d give anything to be back in the shit of war. The blood, the stink, and the pain—something about it is so mindlessly simple. He knows it’s the same for Frank. He understands it in a way Maria never could.    

It’s something Frank still hasn’t come to terms with. 

They both miss it. 

Billy tilts his head up at him, eyebrows raised. 

Frank swallows. “Why did you—” His voice breaks off. He looks away, then back before he tries again. “Why did you kiss me? You got… you got feelins’ for me or something?” He forces a dry chuckle past his throat, as if the very idea makes him sick. “Serial womanizer Billy Russo got feelins’ for me. What a joke.”

They stare at each other for a moment, just breathing and looking at each other like the answer to the universe’s deepest questions might in the other’s eyes.

“Does that make it harder for you?” Billy asks quietly. “Makes the truth that much harder to swallow? I know why you’re still holding on. I know why you can’t let go, why you can’t put a bullet between my eyes… Because I meant something to you. I was _more_ than a friend—”

“You’re wrong.”

“I was the only one who knew how to make you smile.”

“Not the only one,” Frank growls.

Billy’s lips twist into a wry grin. “Maria was sweet. She was beautiful. And she was a good way to escape when you needed it. But me?” He sighs and chuckles. “I was deep in the shit with you. And I know, just as well as you do, that there’s a part of you that wants to stay in the war. Still does. Guys like us, we need to fight. We need the blood and the guts and the violence. We go mad without it.”

“And Frank?” Billy smirks as Frank turns his head away like he’d been slapped. “I can give you what your sweet Maria never could.”

Frank’s on him in a second. Hits him across the face with a fist that sends his head whipping to one side. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he whispers. His hand, large and heavy like a bear’s paw wraps dangerously around Billy's throat.

Billy gasps through the pain. He sees the anger brewing in Frank’s eyes, dark and menacing. In the right light, it’s downright intoxicating. And it’s not like Billy ever wanted _gentle._

Sometimes Billy thinks he’d rather them kill each other, end it bloody for them both. Would he prefer that? To go out _with_ Frank, nothing but shattered pieces of trust and only each other for company. 

Fuck. He’s starting to get hard. 

Billy chuckles harshly as he struggles to catch his breath, head aching and pounding from the hit. “I’m right though, aren’t I?” He gasps. “Does that make it worse?” He tastes blood on his tongue, coppery and wet. He bites his bottom lip, looks up at Frank with wide, dark eyes, and he grins. “You wanted me, didn’t you? Isn’t there a part of you that still does?”

Frank shudders _._ His guilt so transparent, it’s _delicious_. 

“It’s okay,” Billy tells him softly. “Better to feel pain than nothing at all.”

“You’re fucked up,” Frank says around gritted teeth. “You think I could possibly want you after what you did? To me, to my _family?_ You’re insane.”

“I bet I could prove you wrong.”

Frank’s face goes blank.

“Tell me what you want,” Billy says softly. He gives him a suggestive flick of his tongue and Frank’s damn ears start ringing. There’s a sudden blinding pressure behind his eyelids. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears—consequences of being unprepared for… whatever this is.  

“You want me to suck your cock? How long has it been since you had a warm mouth around you, huh? I’d make it real good for you, Frankie.”

Frank stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

Billy might have been discouraged, if it weren’t for the bulge in the front of Frank’s pants, growing bigger by the second. A desperate shiver runs down his spine. 

“Fuck you, I didn’t—” 

“It’s okay,” Billy cuts him off. “It’s okay. Maria would have understood,” he says gently. Frank opens his mouth and closes it, gaping like fish without water. “It was war,” is Billy’s simple answer.

“You are pissin’ on the memory of my wife, you bastard—”

“But you like it, right?”

Billy tilts his chin up, his face pure, unadulterated _sin._ He’s beautiful and depraved. Skin pale, eyes dark and oh so lovely that Frank’s cock twitches with interest. 

_Fuck,_ he misses sex. 

Billy practically reads his mind. “How long’s it been, Frank? How bad do you want it?” He’s always had the ability to read Frank like an open book. The other man blinks, as if suddenly realizing that his hand is still wrapped around Billy’s slender throat. Their faces are close enough that they can feel the other’s breath on their lips. Yet Frank does nothing to pull away. 

Billy grins and runs his tongue over his lips again. “You wanna hurt me, Frank?”

Frank grits his teeth. His other hand is fisted, trembling by his side, but that’s not what Billy meant. 

“That’s what you want, right? To hurt me? Here’s your chance. Take it.”

“Shut up.”

“We’ll call it a punishment then.”

“I never wanted you.” Frank sounds like he’s drowning, hand clenched tight around Billy’s throat. “I swear I didn’t.”

“Stop lying, I know you better than anyone—”

But Frank snarls furiously, he can’t take anymore. “You bastard, you’re the reason they’re dead! You let it happen!”

Billy shudders under his grip. It’s getting harder to breathe and he vaguely wonders if he’s pushing Frank to kill him or fuck him. He was never one to think about right or wrong. That never mattered to him. Against better judgment, Billy keeps pushing. 

“I did you a favor.”

Frank looks startled. “What did you say?”

“You wanted the war. You wanted it, Frank. I asked you to get out with me but you wouldn’t. I…” Billy scoffs gently and looks away. “I practically begged you. You knew it was bad, what we did, what we did in Kandahar. But… in the end, you chose to stay. And you chose it over me.” 

“Is that why?” Frank asks, shocked. He lets out a sharp growl and pulls away abruptly. His hands can’t stand to touch the other man. “Is that why you did it?”

“You made it pretty damn clear that day,” Billy says, his voice low. “Family is _bullshit_. You chose the war over me, just like you would have done over your precious wife and kids.” The other man shakes his head, desperate to deny it, but Billy laughs. “Now look at you, Frank. Look at yourself. What have you got now? No wife, no kids. No war. And what happens next? What do you do when it’s over? What do you do when the gunfire ends? How do you live in that?” 

Frank doesn’t have an answer for him. 

“You don’t,” Billy growls. “You gotta admit who you are, Frankie. And me? I know. You can lie to yourself. You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to me.”

Billy sniffs. Lifts his chin up and smirks, arrogant and so full of spite. “It’ll always be you and me.”

A moment passes. 

Frank hits him hard enough that he feels blood drip down the back of his throat. He was right. Frank does like hurting him. 

Vaguely, Billy hears the sound of a belt being undone. Before he knows it, before a full grin can spread on his lips, Frank is pulling him close. He grips him tight, one hand around the back of the neck, and the other forces his jaw open as he slides his hard cock past his lips.

Billy whimpers and chokes as Frank’s dick immediately hits the back of his throat. There’s not much he can do at first but to take it—taken by surprise. He nearly gags as he tries to remember how to loosen his throat. Frank grunts heavily above him. A fist wraps painfully around his hair, tugging at the dark strands, and _fuck,_ the strain on his bound wrists hurt as his body is contorted and pulled forward.   

But Billy’s done this before, he knows how to make another man cum. He hollows his cheeks, tightens his throat, and remembers to breathe through his nose. 

His dark eyes glance up. Frank’s face looks ragged, eyes closed, cheeks bright red. He’s hungry and needy and Billy wants him so much it _hurts._

Frank, bless him, he doesn’t hold back. His cock, the thickest Billy’s ever had in his mouth, isn’t exactly gentle as he fucks him, hitting the back of his throat. He’s fast too. Like every instant of Billy’s tongue on him were somehow burning his flesh.

_“I fucking hate you,”_ Frank manages, raggedly. 

Billy takes it, he takes all of it with such elegance he thinks his whore mother would be proud of him. 

Best she doesn’t see him now. 

Billy knows the telltales signs as Frank shudders, his movements becoming more erratic. A few more painful thrusts and Frank is spilling down his throat. Halfway through, the man curses loudly—hard to tell whether he’s madder at himself or Billy—and pulls out. Half his load ends up splattering over Billy’s face and neck.

The moment he’s done, Frank stares down in horror, in shock of what he’d done.  

Billy’s black eyes stare up at him as he breathes heavily. His own cock is painfully hard, though, with his hands bound behind him, he knows there’s no hope of anyone taking care of the problem between his legs.  

Frank lets his eyes fall shut. His spent cock is still too hard to stuff back into his pants, but having it out for a second longer just seems wrong. Too painful of a reminder—the guilt wears heavy on him like a dark mask.  

It’s Billy who speaks first. 

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.” His voice is hoarse and Frank winces at the sound. 

Frank looks away, blushing furiously. Slowly, he gathers himself. “I can’t… I can’t do this, Bill,” he manages. 

Billy gives him a half-shrug. Either saliva or cum dribbles wetly down his chin. “I did care about you,” he says softly. “I did.”

“Then… then what…”

“It wasn’t enough,” Billy says simply, regretfully. “It just wasn’t enough.”

“You bastard,” Frank whispers, looking away.

“I know,” Billy acknowledges quietly. 

“I hate you.”

“You always cared too goddamn much.” Billy swallows thickly. “That was your problem.”

Frank wonders, not for the first time, if Billy had ever been shown proper affection in his life. Does he even know what it looks like? ‘Cause this… none of this is right.

“If I…” Billy closes his eyes. “If I said I was sorry…”

“It’s not enough,” Frank echoes. “I was expendable to you. And what you did…” 

Billy grits his teeth and glares up at the man above him. He’s nothing if not stubborn. “You wanted this,” he growls. “Stop lying to yourself, Frankie. Your family is gone, but I’m still here. Just let it go. I may be a piece of shit, but I’m still here. You still have me.”

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t—”

“I’m _all_ you have.”

Frank’s face hardens and Billy knows he hasn’t won. 

Not yet.

He was never clingy like a woman, though Frank certainly knows how to make him feel like one scorned.


	4. Chapter 4

The air changes around him. Winter floods in through the crack in the window. The curtains may be pulled tight, but Billy can still smell the crisp, cold air that hits his nostrils. It spills around him as his dark eyes glare angrily at the closed door. Something dark and disturbing boils in his gut. He cracks his neck painfully. His face is cold, ugly fury—messy like the war that he left behind. The furrow in his brow, the sneer of his lips, the tension of his shoulders could tell stories of war. Of blood and trauma and pain. But there’s no one to see them now. No one who would even listen. 

Time passes differently now. 

It’s been six days since Frank touched him. Five weeks since he woke up in this dump with his limbs tied behind his back. Fourteen months since he thought Frank had died in an explosion right here on home soil. 

Three and a half years since Kandahar. Give or take. 

Billy is staring at the cuffs around his wrists and ankles when Frank walks through the door. The bruises around his broken wrist are fading and sore. He quickly hides the small piece of straightened metal coil he’d ripped out of the ratty old mattress inside his palm as he looks up at the arrival. 

“Bill.” Frank’s voice sounds tortured and definitely not happy to see him. Maybe he’d rather avoid this—whatever this is between them—altogether. So why doesn’t he?

He steps closer and sets down a plate on the ground in front of Billy. Paper, of course. Frank’s not an idiot. Another sandwich. Billy can smell the turkey. He narrows his eyes at it, hissing like he wants to blame all his problems in the world on some cold deli meat and cheese between two slices of stale bread. 

Billy lifts his head. 

They stare at each other for a while, silent and unmoving, looking like some god awful, sad melodrama. Billy wants to scream. This isn’t supposed to be his life. It’s not supposed to be so _pathetic._

“You should eat,” Frank finally speaks. 

“Not hungry.” That’s a lie. It’s been almost eighteen hours since Billy had put food in his stomach. He knows from watching the sun rise and set through the cracks in the curtain. 

The small piece of metal digs into the flesh of his palm. He clenches his fist harder, nearly drawing blood. 

Frank doesn’t notice. He’s too busy sighing heavily and looking away. 

“You should let me go.”

“Fuck you,” Frank returns darkly. 

Billy smirks. Can’t blame a guy for trying. 

The sandwich lays forgotten as his feet.

Frank shakes his head. He starts pacing, back and forth in the small room. He does this when he doesn’t know what to say, when he doesn’t know how to properly make his thoughts into words, like a goddamn neanderthal. He does this when he wants to lash out physically, but he’s actively refraining from doing so. 

“I’ll never understand why you did it,” Frank says carefully, not looking at him. “No matter how many times you try to justify it, I’ll never get it.”

_It’ll never be okay._

Those words don’t need to be said, and Billy simply watches him with curious eyes. He doesn’t ask why Frank still gives a damn. 

“After… Cerberus, after you left, I thought… I thought you’d gotten what you wanted. You wanted out and you got out. Why did you—why did you let that asshole Rawlins get to you, huh?”

“Does it matter?” Billy asks softly.  

“Just answer the damn question.”

“You would never understand, Frankie.”

“I thought I knew you,” Frank growls in response. “I thought I knew who you were. I thought you were my friend, my _brother_ , my— _”_

“Family? Such sentiment,” Billy says with a sneer. 

“It wasn’t enough for you,” Frank says flatly. He’s finally starting to see the truth for what it is. A broken thing like Billy, how could anything ever be enough for him?

Billy is quiet for a moment. “It’s not like you ever came to me. You call me your family? Why didn’t you stick with me? When I wanted out, we could have gotten out together.” He shakes his head. The air in the room suddenly gets harder to breathe. “Why didn’t you come to me after Maria and the kids, huh? You never sought me out, not _once_. You let me think you were dead for a goddamn year, is that _family_ to you?”

“And then…” Billy’s voice drifts off. His throat closes, from either anger or hurt, he can’t quite tell which it is. “Then when you came back… you just wanted me out of your way.” 

Frank’s brow furrows. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? ‘Cause when Frank Castle has a mission, nothin’ stands in his way. And _his_ way, is the only way.”

That’s how it was at war. Every mission, every fight, every battle. They might’ve been a team, but it was always Frank’s call, done on Frank’s terms. 

“You never asked for my help. You never wanted my help.”

“I was trying to protect you, Bill.”

“You think I needed your protection? Me?! I wasn’t the one running from every agency in the goddamn country. I made a life for myself! I had… money and resources, I had  _people._ If you thought anything of me at all, you would have come to me. After Maria and the kids, after killing that bastard Schoonover, after… after the war.”

Frank closes his eyes. It’s suddenly too much to be in the same room as him. “Billy,” his voice is strangely weak.  

“You came back,” Billy says softly. “And then you had your _real_ family. And you never fucking needed me again, Frank.”

“That’s not true.” But there’s little conviction behind his words and Frank winces at the sound of his own voice.  

“You really wanna know why I did it?”

Frank’s not sure that he does. But he must take too long to answer because Billy goes right ahead and tells him anyway.

“Because I wanted something you couldn’t give me. Because when I needed you, you _hurt_ me. And because at the end of it all, I realized you could never be what I needed. All I had was myself.” He pauses. “And that was it.” 

Frank swallows the lump in his throat. He sniffs. “And that was it?” He echoes.

“I could have had so much more, without you. Rawlins offered me everything I’d ever wanted in the world.” Billy says softly. “Almost everything. And it was worth it. At—at the time, it was worth it.” 

“But you regret it?” Frank asks, practically begs, to know.   

Billy smiles sadly and something in Frank’s chest aches. 

“Yeah. I regret it.” Considering how they both ended up, it’s not hard to. And truth is, Billy never wanted to hurt Frank in the first place. He just wanted to raise himself up. To be able to look back and see that he made something of himself from nothing. Frank was the best man he’d ever known. But when the pieces fell together, he was just… collateral damage. 

Frank turns away. He spins on his heel and struggles not to walk out that door.

It’s just what Billy needs to shove the flat piece of metal into the cuff of the shackles around his wrists. The locking mechanism falls loose, and he’s just as quick with the ones around his ankles. He’s on his feet before Frank even turns around, and he slams them both into the wall with enough force that it surprises them both.

He could have taken the gun that Frank had in the waist of his pants. He goes for the Ka-Bar at his hip instead. His fist curls into the fabric of Frank’s shirt. The sharp blade of the knife presses into the crook of Frank’s neck, eager to draw blood, and the warm puff of Frank’s breath hits Billy’s lips, making him shiver. 

He needs this. He needs to take Frank out, because if he doesn’t the other man will never stop hunting him. He could end it right now. He can still start over. A new identity, a new life. He can still be somebody, make something of himself. 

But his hand shakes. And he can’t help it—the adrenaline of being on his feet, in the freezing cold air, the proximity to the other man that he hadn’t felt in too damn long—he trembles.  

Frank glares at him, so familiar and close, like it’s what Billy’s been craving this entire time.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me, Frankie.”

“Fuck you, Russo.”

“I should just kill you now.”

“So do it,” Frank growls softly. He’s tired of this. He’s got no end game. Never has when it comes to Billy Russo. The edges got blurred. This ends with either Billy dead or himself. He’s accepted that much, at least. And he’s tired of pretending he could be the one to end Billy’s life with his hands. 

His fingers wrap around Billy’s wrists, but the other man doesn’t budge. Billy could slit his throat faster than he could grab the firearm tucked into the back of his pants. 

He wants to be mad that he let his guard down. The strangest thing is, he’s not. 

Billy Russo is dangerous. Frank had always known that. But he had no idea. 

This could be the end. 

“You sold me out, you bastard,” Frank mutters softly. His voice cracks and he bites his tongue. 

“And you lied to me.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank snarls. “You watched my family get slaughtered! My wife, my _children!_ How can you think it’s the same thing? How can you think it’s even close?”

“It’s not like I killed them,” Billy whispers. “It’s not like I pulled the trigger.”

“But you were okay with them taking me out. You just… turned a blind eye. They would have killed me, they almost did. And you were okay with that.”

Billy lets out a pathetic whimper, an awful, weak little noise. It’s not like he can deny any of it. Instead, he presses their bodies close. The warmth radiating from Frank's body is intoxicating against the cold air around him. 

He presses their foreheads together, shudders a breath through his ragged lungs. “Collateral damage,” he whispers cruelly.

Frank closes his eyes. “You selfish son of a bitch.” He waits for it to end, waits for the blade of the knife to slice into his jugular. 

It never comes. 

Instead, he hears the thud of the knife landing tip first into the dirty floorboards by his feet.

“I did care,” Billy whispers against his lips. “I really did.” 

The heat is overwhelming and for a moment, it’s too hard to think so Billy just presses their lips together. His frantic hands press against Frank’s hard chest and he nudges a bare knee between Frank’s thighs. 

It’s a moment before he realizes Frank is responding to him. He’s kissing him back, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. Frank cups his face with his other hand. His grip is hard, he’s not gentle, not at all. But that’s how Billy likes it. He lets out a noise when Frank’s tongue pushes past his lips. And then another, when Frank tugs hard on his long, messy strands of hair, forcing his head back and his neck to strain painfully. 

“Would my wife and kids still be alive if I stuck it to you back in the day?” Frank manages. 

Billy shudders a gasp. “I… I never meant to hurt them,” he finally says. 

Frank’s grip eases, just a tiny bit. The other hand wraps around Billy’s throat, painful and threatening. 

It gets harder to draw air into his lungs. Billy’s been here before, at another man’s mercy, naked and vulnerable. He’s familiar with the fear, the helplessness that chokes him when a stronger man’s hands are on him. He feels weak, so weak and pathetic, he could cry. 

But this is Frank, he reminds himself. He fixes his eyes on Frank’s face, the emotion he finds there is some mixture of raw rage and unexplainable sadness. 

If there were anyone who could be Billy's equal, it's Frank. And Billy knows how to get the upper hand. 

His fingers reach for Frank’s zipper, he slides it down and starts tugging at the man’s pants. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank asks, but he makes no moves to stop him.

_Too much._

Billy shakes his head. 

“I thought I knew you. I thought I could trust you…”

“Let me make it up to you,” Billy rasps, pushing their bodies close. “Don’t you want me, Frankie?”

“Not like this,” Frank says roughly. But long fingers are stroking down the length of his cock and they both know it’s a lie. “I could never touch you.”

_Bullshit._

“I’d make it good,” Billy says warmly. “I’d make it so good for you.”

Frank’s head spins. He kisses Billy like his life depends on it, hissing harshly as he pours breathless threats against Billy’s lips. He teeth dig into the other man’s soft bottom lip. He doesn’t want this. But some lies are easier to live with than others.

He hates himself. For the guilt that he feels. For what he’s doing to Maria and the memory of his family. 

With every fiber of his being, he’s going to make Russo burn in hell with him. 

“Is this what you want?” Frank lets out a sharp growl and roughly tugs on Billy’s hair to get his attention. He yanks his chin up and devours his mouth, swallowing any words Billy might’ve had to say. _This is so wrong,_ he thinks. _So fucking wrong._

He bites down on Billy’s tongue in his mouth, maybe a little too hard. He tastes the copper of blood. Billy’s breath hitches when he thrusts his hip against his naked groin.  

“It’s the only way you’ll ever have me,” says Frank. And then he pushes them forward. Billy’s legs stumble as he’s pushed back by the stronger man until they hit the small mattress on the floor. They fall onto it heavily, a tangled mess of limbs, and Frank presses a shaky kiss to Billy’s lips. “I hate you,” he whispers. It doesn’t need to be said, but he says it anyway. 

“I know,” Billy says hollowly. His eyes stare up at the other man, blank and empty. “Now fuck me and get it over with.”

Frank closes his eyes heavily.

Billy moans when Frank’s hands grip his thighs, strong enough to leave bruises. He whimpers when Frank’s mouth finds his own. There’s the sharpness of teeth against his lips—short lived, because Frank roughly turns him over onto his stomach. And then the teeth are back, digging right into the meat between his neck and his shoulder. 

He gasps as he feels Frank’s cock pressing between his thighs. He breathes heavily as he struggles to steady his racing heart. He feels hungry and needy and… _fucking scared._ So much that a treacherous whine bubbles from his throat. 

He can feel Frank moving behind him and his eyes flutter shut as he prepares himself for the inevitable pain. He knows Frank won’t make this easy for him. 

“You want this?” Franks asks, as he shifts the position of his hips to press his cock against Billy’s entrance. 

Billy bows his head silently in response, letting it rest against the dirty mattress as he braces himself for what comes next. 

Frank pushes into him roughly, eased only with saliva, making Billy see white behind his eyelids. He gasps and chokes on his breath as a scream gets lost somewhere in the back of his throat. 

Frank is buried deep inside him. The man grunts heavily. Blunt fingernails dig painfully into Billy's hips as he holds him steady, holds him close. 

Frank doesn’t ask if he’s okay. He just fucks him. 

Billy bites his lip to keep from crying out. He arches his back as another hard thrust leaves him seeing stars. A breathy gasp spills from his lips and he stubbornly pushes his hips back for more. 

He feels a bit like laughing hysterically.   

This is what he wanted, Billy thinks to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are lovely and much appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> [x](http://winters-blue-children.tumblr.com)


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